


Forduary 2018

by redwoodroots



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Childhood, College, Elementary School, Eye, Eyebat, Fluff, Ford does science, Ford fixed it (sort of), Ford in College, Ford's a fluffy science nerdling, Forduary, Ghosts, Nightmare, Paranoid, Pranks, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Protective Stanley, School, Sea Grunks, Stan O' War, Stan is slightly cursed, Stan o War, Stan singing, Stan singing BADLY, Stan singing loudly, Stanley pulls a seriously cool prank, Steal my eyes, Studying, Tickles, cemetary, forduary 2018, science owl, statue, tags are haaard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwoodroots/pseuds/redwoodroots
Summary: The dissertation Ford was reading during class is confiscated by their teacher, and Stanley pulls a master prank to get it back.





	1. Week One: Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dissertation Ford was reading during class is confiscated by their teacher, and Stanley pulls a master prank to get it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this is my first-ever entry for any Stanuary or Forduary and I'm pretty excited about it :D Just some light drabble about an incident that could've occurred in their childhood.

“...Stanford Filbrick Pines!” 

The ruler came down hard on the desk and he jumped. Normally Stan nudged him or something when a teacher called his name, but Stan was in the office again and Ford had forgotten to pay attention. 

Ms. Harding towered over him, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “And just what is so fascinating that it takes precedence over paying attention in my class?” She grabbed for his book. 

“Hey!” 

“' _Properties of Expanding Universes'_...what is this, more science fiction trash?” 

The class turned to look at him. Crampelter snickered. 

Ford's face grew hot. “It is _not_ trash, it's a scholarly paper written by –”

“Maybe if you focused more on the task at hand, Ford, you wouldn't be failing in school.” She sniffed contemptuously. “Mr. Burk tells me you received another D in Physical Education.” 

The class laughed again. Crampelter had turned around in his seat and was mouthing insults behind the teacher's back. He and Gordo high-fived. 

“I am confiscating this. You may have it back after class.” Ms. Harding turned sharply and stalked back to her desk. 

Ford slunk low in his seat. _Great._ The dissertation had only recently been published and it had taken him forever to get his hands on it. And he was at a good part, too! If this was anything like last time, Ms. Harding wouldn't give it back and he'd have to ask Stan to break into her desk again. That was what had gotten him sent to the office today in the first place. 

Something sharp hit the back of his head. A pencil. Followed by an eraser. He pretended not to notice. By the time school let out, he was usually covered in spit wads, anyway. 

 

“I can just go get it.” 

“Please don't.” 

“Sixer, c'mon, I can be in 'n' outta there in –”

“Seriously. I'd really rather you not.” 

They were walking home. Taking back alleys, too, because Crampelter had a new paper route and he liked to chase them on his bike and try to run them over. 

They walked behind a restaurant. There was a huge dumpster in the back with piles of garbage bags all around it. It stank of rotting fruit. He moved to step around a nasty-looking puddle that might once have been a tomato, and suddenly a cat jumped out at him from nowhere. 

He startled, stepped in the puddle and almost fell. Stanley caught his arm. 

“You know, that stuff looks lethal,” Stan mused, eyeing the puddle. “You think you could gimme whatever you scrape off of your shoe?” 

“Ew, Stan, what would you even use it for?” 

“You kidding? This stuff has _tons_ of pranking power! It could be vomit, it could be accidentally placed in sealed ketchup packets, it could be the mysterious squishy thing at the bottom of someone's desk drawer!” 

“Stan, if someone actually _did_ eat that stuff, I'm pretty sure you'd get in actual legal trouble for that.” 

“Yeah, right!” He started searching the bags around the dumpster. “Anybody with a working nose would straight-up gag before they'd eat – ah-HA!” He found an empty soda can and held it up with a look of triumph. “Perfect!” 

“You're not seriously taking that home?” 

“Trust me, Sixer.” He scooped up the evil-smelling goo, careful not to let the stuff touch his hands. “Stan the Man has an Awesome Plan.” 

“Those words never lead to anything good.” 

 

Pa put them to work dusting the Pawn Shop as soon as they got home, and then they overheard Ma with her clients and Stanley insisted on being the one to do Tarot Readings. (Sometimes they'd sit next to her and blurt out stuff they thought they should say. Ma found this hilarious and called it their “quality conning time”.) After that it was dinner, homework, sneaking out to work on the Stan O' War before it got dark, sneaking back, and dropping into a dead sleep. By the time he woke up the next morning, Ford had forgotten all about the puddle of toxic ooze. 

Ms. Harding gave Ford a cutting look when he walked through the door for class, but he was used to that. Stanley noticed. 

“You still upset about yesterday?” he asked quietly. 

Ford shrugged. 

“Cheer up, Sixer. Here, I'll sharpen your pencils for you.” 

Ford pulled his tin pencil case out of his backpack and handed it over. The sharpener was allowed to be used by each student once a day, and only before and after class. It was a great sharpener. But it hardly ever got used...since it sat right next to Ms. Harding's desk. 

Ford sat down nervously and watched Stan go to the front of the room. 

“Mornin', Ma'am!” he said cheerfully. 

She narrowed her eyes. “You sassin' me, boy?” 

“No ma'am!” 

“You watch your tone with me, boy.” 

“Yes ma'am!” 

Her eyes narrowed so much they were practically slits. She knew Stan was never that nice unless he was up to something. 

“Front of the room today, Pines,” she said coldly, pointing to a desk right next to her own.

“Yes ma'am!” Stan said, and started back down the aisle towards Ford. 

Ms. Harding stood up. “Where do you think you're going, boy?” 

“To give these pencils back to my brother.” 

“I said sit _down_ , or the only place you're going is straight to detention!” 

Ford was dismayed – no Stan, and now no pencils. What was he supposed to write with, his face? 

But Stanley actually looked delighted. “Yes ma'am!” he said cheerfully, and flashed Ms. Harding his brightest smile. He took a seat, slung his backpack underneath his chair, and lined up his pencils as the rest of the class came in. 

Ford stared at the back of his brother's head, nonplussed. What on earth was he up to?

It didn't take long for the rest of the class to become equally suspicious. After all, Stan was the best (or worst) prankster in the school. And yet today he was acting like a model student! He _had_ to be up to something – a prank bigger and juicier than he'd ever pulled before. The class watched him with growing excitement. 

“Betcher brother's gonna get expelled,” Crampelter muttered to Ford, grinning evilly. “Betcha he's gonna get thrown in military school.” 

Ford swallowed. 

It got worse the longer it went. Ms. Harding started grinding her teeth so loudly Ford could hear it from the back of the room. She knew Stan was up to something, but she couldn't find out what.

“Stanley!” she'd snap. “What's the answer to the problem!?” 

“I think the answer's 59, ma'am,” he said politely. 

“Wrong! It's 61, I've told you to pay attention!” 

“Yes, ma'am!” 

“Don't you 'yes ma'am' me!” 

“No, ma'am!”

“And watch your tone!” 

“Yes, ma'am!” 

The class sputtered with barely hidden laughter. 

“ _Silence!_ ”

On and on, for every problem. Ms. Harding's face was turning a rather ominous shade of purple, and there was a muscle bunched in her jaw, and her hand was wrapped so tightly around the pointer she was using that it snapped against the blackboard. And Stanley remained completely and perfectly polite. The excitement and tension reached a fever pitch. Ford thought if it went on for one more second Ms. Harding would expel them on the spot. 

And then it happened. 

Ten minutes before recess, Cathy Crenshaw, one of the nicest and prettiest girls in class, projectile-vomited all over the kid in front of her.

Instantly the whole class started screaming. 

“SHE THREW UP! SHE THREW UP!” 

“IT'S ON ME! IT'S ON ME!” 

“IT'S RED! SHE'S BLEEDING BLOOD!” 

“SHE THREW UP! SHE THREW UP!” 

“IT _SMELLS!_ ” 

The smell hit him and Ford felt his nose hairs curl. It was foul, putrid, and utterly disgusting, like a waterlogged corpse left out in the sun for a week and covered in ketchup. Ford covered his mouth with his jacket and tried not to throw up. 

“Stay in your seats!” Ms. Harding screeched. But it was anarchy. The class, wound tight as piano wire from watching Stanley, completely and fully lost their minds. People were scrambling to get away from the vomit zone, working each other into a frenzy, pressing like a human wave against the far wall. Crampelter jumped onto his desk and started throwing everything he could at people, yelling at them to get back to their desks (so he wouldn't get in trouble for disobeying, himself). His sidekicks, Gordo and Roman, mysteriously disappeared, but several people seemed to trip over nothing and went sprawling, hitting their chins on people's desks, splitting their lips. 

Two people closest to Cathy had gotten a face full of the smell and started gagging. They dropped to their knees, drooling and choking. 

Stanley leapt to his feet, turning towards Cathy and the other downed students with a look of perfect concern on his face. 

“Oh, no, are you feeling alright?" he asked, starting towards them. "Here, let me help –”

“YOU. STAY. _BACK_ ,” Ms. Harding snarled. Her eyes practically shot sparks. “I _know_ you're behind this and you're going to stay right where I can see you. Now stand up against the wall and don't you dare try any funny business with me! As soon as I get this sorted out I am marching you straight down to the Principal's Office myself!” 

Ms. Harding stalked toward Ford. He finally unfroze, leaping from his seat and stumbling backwards (immediately tripping over Gord's extended foot). But Ms. Harding went right past him and started yelling at the four people covered in vomit. 

Stan saw him fall and looked like he was going to move forward to help him. Ford quickly waved his brother back. 

“ _Stay put_ ,” he mouthed. No use getting in even bigger trouble. 

Stan nodded. 

Ms. Harding was yelling at the students. “You pick yourselves up and go straight to the bathrooms and clean off!” she shouted. “And you! Cathy! You're heading to the nurse. Don't come back until you've got a doctor's note. And stop eating whatever made you throw up that – that _sludge!_ ” She stabbed a finger at the goopy mess, then whirled to face Stanley. “And _YOU_. You're coming with me. Sanchez, you're in charge until I get back. Everybody get back to your seats and do lines! Go on, chop chop!” 

She grabbed Stan's shoulder and steered him out of the room. 

As soon as the door banged shut, the class went nuts. Sanchez didn't even try to maintain any semblance of order. He just sat down at his desk and started drawing footballs. 

Ford had no interest in getting pelted with spit balls, or waiting until Crampelter tried to make him eat the vomit on the floor. He slipped quietly out the back door of the classroom and stood in the hall. Anyone who saw him would think he was in trouble, and would probably leave him alone. 

He looked down the hall. He'd be able to see if Ms. Harding was coming back so he could duck inside. From the way her hand looked on Stan's shoulder and how he stiffened, Ford guessed she'd been holding him pretty tightly. Ford's stomach squirmed. 

He wished Stan wouldn't get himself in so much trouble. Stan was always saying how they'd stick together. But then he went and pulled some stunt and got sent to the office anyway. How exactly was that “sticking together”? It was Stan doing whatever Stan wanted, that's what it was, and Ford hated it when Stan got punished and he was alone out here by himself without even a book to keep his brain from going in worried circles. It felt like it would be years before Stanley came back. 

“Stan, where are you,” he muttered, without realizing that he'd spoken out loud. 

 

Ford felt like he'd been standing there for hours, but it was really only a few minutes before he heard the tell-tale scuff of Ms. Harding's loafers. She and Stan turned a corner and Ford saw them coming down the hall, her hand still on Stan's shoulder. She looked boiling mad. 

Ford slipped back inside the classroom and hurried to his desk (avoiding outstretched feet) just as they walked through the door. 

“Take your seats,” she snapped, and her voice was so cold the whole room froze. The students quickly hurried back to their desks. They knew better than to test the limits of Ms. Harding's stress medication. 

Ms. Harding had practically shoved Stan back into his usual seat next to Ford. He tried to catch his brothers eye. 

“ _Stan_ ,” he mouthed, but his brother cut his eyes at the teacher. 

“ _Later,_ ” he mouthed back. 

Stan stayed as quiet as possible for the rest of the lesson, since Ms. Harding kept giving him the evil eye, but Ford could tell he was practically vibrating in his seat. Had Stan pulled off whatever prank he had planned, or was something else still coming? 

But Stan refused to talk about it all the way up until the end of the school day. When the bell rang, Stanley instantly jumped to his feet and was out the door so fast his feet practically blurred like a cartoon. 

“Hey – wait for me!” Ford shouted, running after him. 

But Stan ran full-tilt for the beach, backpack bouncing on his back, zooming like a bullet down the sidewalk. 

Crampelter's iron-gray bike came streaking out of nowhere. 

“Well well, if it ain't the teacher's pests!” he shouted, and turned the bike straight for Stanley. 

Stan didn't even slow down. “OUTTA THE WAY, CRAMPY!” he shouted. He slung his backpack off his back, swung it by one strap and hit Crampelter's bike right on the edge of his front tire. 

The timing was perfect. The front wheel turned at a crazy angle, forcing the bike to brake, but Crampelter had been going so fast that his own momentum threw him up and over the front wheel. He flipped over and landed on his back with a nasty crunch. 

“OH MY GOD HE'S DEAD!” Ford shouted, slowing down.

Crampelter sat up. “WHEN I CATCH YOU YOU'RE DEAD!” 

_Oh sweet Sagan!_ Ford sped right back up again, pumping his skinny legs for all he was worth. Stan had disappeared from sight, but Ford had already calculated his brother's trajectory. He headed straight for Glass Shard Beach. 

He reached the sand a minute later, a knife in his lungs, every breath rasping like hot sandpaper in his throat. And there was Stan, down in the waves, shrieking and hollering like a hooligan. 

“Stan,” he gasped, limping over to his brother. He dropped like a rock next to Stan's backpack, sitting down with his head thrown back. “Geez, you – run like a – cheetah or – something –”

“I AM NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN!” Stan bellowed, and plunged back into the waves. A second later he leaped back out, soaking wet. “'Yes, ma'am!' 'No, ma'am!' 'Please, ma'am!' AAAAAH!” He hurled himself at the sand and flailed around like he was trying to burrow into it. “ _Never never never never never never –_ ”

“Whoa, hey! Stanley!” Ford quickly rolled away and held up an arm to shield his face. “Cut it out already! What's the matter with you?” 

Stanley's head popped out of the sand like a ticked-off seagull. “If I _ever_ have to act like a prissy teacher's pet again I will stab myself in the foot with a glass shard! How do you _stand_ it?!” 

“Excuse _you_ , I am not a teacher's pet,” Ford said indignantly. 

“I am so gross and covered in nerd cooties oh sweet Moses _whyyyy!_ ” He flopped back down and rolled back and forth until he was thoroughly covered in sand. 

Ford rolled his eyes. “Well now you're covered in cooties. You know how many species of bacteria proliferate on a typical beach?” 

Stan lifted his head and inhaled deeply. “NEEEEERD,” he said loudly, and then dropped his head back down. 

Ford snorted. 

“Mhmfmffm fmf,” Stan said, still face-first in the sand. 

“What?” 

He raised his head. “I _said_ , I have something for you.” And he reached over, yanked his backpack close, and pulled out – 

“The dissertation?!” Ford took it, staring disbelievingly at the paper. It was really wrinkled from being in Stan's backpack (and hitting Crampelter), and there were a few mysterious stains on it. But other than that, it was in great shape. Ford held it reverently. “I _told_ you not to get this back! Now she's gonna know you did it!” 

“How?” Stan pushed himself up off the sand and sat down. “Look, everyone in class saw me being – _ugh_ – all well-behaved and junk all morning. It's not _my_ fault Cathy decided to tango with the toilet, and when she did, everybody saw me standing up against the wall. With my arms _raised_ , no less. Why d'you think they let me outta that office so fast? She couldn't pin a thing on me!” 

Ford looked up. “It _was_ you, though, right?” 

Stan looked offended. “Do I detect a hint of doubt? Is my brother, Stanford Pines, actually questioning my pranking abilities?” 

“But how'd you do it?” 

Stan shrugged. “Easy. That cat we saw at the dumpster was Cathy's, I saw her 'Lost Cat' poster a week ago. I told her that if she did a little favor for me, I'd tell her exactly where she could find her cat.” 

“And she did it, just like that?” 

“Yep! Well, there was a little persuasion involved. But mostly yep! Relax, she didn't actually eat the tomato guts,” Stan said, catching the look on Ford's face. “I just had her stick in a zippy bag and squirt it out real fast.” 

Ford's mind was racing. “But – the drawer –”

“You asked me to sharpen your pencils,” Stan reminded him. 

“You're kidding. You picked the lock on the drawer and stole it? No, wait, but we were watching you! Ms. Harding was sitting right there at her desk and we were both watching you...” 

“Exactly. But nobody was watching my feet. All I did was block the drawer so she couldn't shut and lock it all the way. And then when vomit went flyin', I got up to help, and she told me herself to go stand by the wall. Which meant taking a little detour near her desk and slipping my hand into a conveniently unlocked cabinet. Nobody was looking at me then, that's for sure. All's I had to do was stuff it up under my shirt and presto!” 

Ford remembered the stiff way he'd walked out of the room. “You were hiding it in your shirt,” he repeated wonderingly. 

“No easy thing, lemme tell you,” Stan said. “I gotta pack on some muscle or something if I wanna hide bigger stuff under there. I thought she was gonna feel it any second, but I think she was too mad or just thought it was my scrawny shoulder blade or something.” His eyes sparkled with laughter. “Best part was, the principal's already sick a lookin' at me, so when she told him the story and how she hadn't actually seen me do anything this time he told her to get out and not send me back 'till next year!” He laughed. “I figure that's good for at _least_ a month!” 

“And you planned out _all_ of that?!” Ford asked, disbelieving. It was just so – so thorough and intricate and skillful and – and –

“Well shucks, yer makin' me blush,” Stan said drily. Only he really was blushing, and Ford realized he'd been talking out loud. 

“I mean normally you talk out your pranks with me so I can point out where you might get caught!” 

“Ugh, I _know_. But you got more tells than the sea's got salt, and I had to make sure I could pull this off without giving it away. I mean, no offense or anything,” Stan added quickly. 

“What? No, no, that's just – it's so _impressive_ , Stanley! You planned the whole thing like something out of _The Sibling Brothers!_ It's – it's phenomenal!” 

Stan was now redder than a fresh tomato. “C'mon,” he muttered, ducking his head and grinning. “I mean, it was no big deal. And this way I'm guaranteed to hang out in class for a month and keep Harding off your back.” 

Ford shook his head. He still couldn't believe it. It had to be the most thorough prank Stan had ever pulled. Of all the stupid, reckless, crazy stunts Stan could think up...and now Ford could read whatever he wanted because he knew Stanley would watch out for him – 

“Don't get sentimental.” Something hard chopped Ford in the back of his knees and he collapsed with a yell. 

“Ow! Stanley!” 

“There we go!” Stanley laughed and dodged when Ford tried to smack him with the dissertation. Then he settled back down and dusted the sand from his hair, brushing it back so it looked windswept and actually kind of cool. “Alright, what's so special about this super-secret paper, anyway?” 

Ford smiled. “It's a dissertation,” he began, “by a man named Stephen Hawking...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was supposed to center on Ford, but somehow Stan wound up playing the biggest role in the story anyway. Dang it, Stan XD
> 
> I'm hoping to have time to come up with something for all four weeks! The next three prompts are: 
> 
> College  
> Paranoia  
> Stan O' War
> 
> Any ideas for what you'd like to see? Leave a comment below! (I may write more Ford drabble after Forduary's over, so please feel free to keep commenting if you have a request!)


	2. Week Two: College

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford returns home for the holidays. He is less than pleased when Shermie pesters him to take a break from his studies.

“What're you doing?” 

“Studying.” 

“You've been doing that since you got here.” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you do anything else?” 

Ford suppressed a groan – barely. It was like dealing with Stanley all over again. 

“Look, Shermie, can't you go play with a ball or something?” 

“Mom told me to stay upstairs 'cuz she's working and she has a headache. And anyway, you're in _my_ room. You have to do what _I_ say.” 

Ford had never been one to grind his teeth, but Shermie was seriously testing the impulse. 

The Pawnshop had exactly two rooms over the store: a bedroom and a bathroom. Ma and Pa's room was downstairs. When Shermie was a baby, he'd slept in a cradle next to Ma's side of the bed. But as soon as Ford had moved out, Shermie had moved in. The walls were now covered with posters of cars, superheroes, and gum wads covering the stars on Ford's old constellation charts. Shermie had recently discovered Silly String and had used it to connect the gum wads in what was simultaneously a gross and accurate representation of the star maps. 

Shermie held up his latest can threateningly. “ _I_ say you have to get your nose outta that book and play games with me, or those books are gonna get real stringy real quick.” 

_Good grief, it really is like talking to Stan!_

“Fine,” Ford snapped, shoving himself back from his desk. “What game is _so important_ that you have to interrupt my musings on the very nature of the universe?!” 

He may have been slightly harsher than he intended. Shermie actually took a step back when Ford pushed away from the desk, but he quickly rallied himself. 

“Checkers,” he said firmly. “And I get to be red. And if I win you have to play again.” 

Ford snorted. He was a regional chess champion, for Sagan's sake. There was no way this kid would win. 

 

He won. 

Ford stared at the board. “How did you...” 

Shermie rolled his eyes, picked up a piece, and handed it to Ford. When Ford held it up, nothing happened, but then he happened to turn it slightly. The piece shimmered in color from red to black. Ford had been so distracted, thinking of the calculations he'd been making, that he hadn't noticed when Shermie had turned a piece to make it seem like Ford had different pieces in different places on the board.

“What on earth _is_ this?” 

Shermie shrugged. “Spray paint. I was doing this thing with silly string and I wanted to mix two colors together to make graffiti, and then I thought, what if I could make graffiti that would disappear?” 

“And you, what, figured out how to create a holographic effect by mixing spray paint?” 

“No, I sorta had to raid the high school science lab.” 

Ford looked at him, amazed. “How old are you, exactly?” 

“Eight, why?” 

“No, no, that was rhetorical.” Ford held up the piece again, his eyes shining with excitement. “This – this is _amazing_ , Shermie! You're a chemist in the making! What else have you been doing?” 

Shermie eyed him. “You're not gonna get me in trouble, are you?” 

“For what, using your brain?” Ford laughed. 

“Well, some of the stuff I've come up with isn't exactly, y'know, _legal_.” 

“Ah.” 

Shermie's mouth twisted up. Ford recognized the expression. It was the same one he wore when he really, _really_ wanted to tell Pa about a new invention he'd made up – but he knew he'd get nothing but that blank glassy stare and an order to man up and get his head out of his books. 

“I promise I won't incriminate you,” Ford said firmly. “I would genuinely love to see what you've come up with. Just the holographic spray paint alone has amazing potential applications!” 

“Yeah?” 

“You could camouflage yourself to study creatures in their native habitat! Assuming they don't have thermal sensory detection. And even if they do you could use it to coat special cameras and place them anywhere, even out in the open, without being detected!” 

“I actually have done that a couple of times,” Shermie admitted. “Got some pretty good close-ups at the beach. Mostly of old people and some walruses, but a couple of cute girls. There's this one girl...” A dreamy look came over her face, an expression that clearly said: _I'm gonna marry her someday_. Then he sort of shook himself out of it and stood up. “Okay, I'll show you what I've got. S'long as you promise not to tell.” 

“I promise,” Ford repeated.

“'Cuz I mean, I don't know you very well, you bein' at college for most of my life. But brothers don't back out on brothers,” he warned. 

A funny feeling jumped in Ford's gut, like he'd swallowed an eel. He ignored it. “I promise,” he said again. 

“Kay.” He went over to his bed, pulled off his pillow, and plunged a hand into a hole in the mattress – the same one Stan had once used to hide his collection of three-point shooters. 

Shermie took out a small metal box, replaced the pillow, and brought it over. He seemed both restless and excited, as if he'd never had a chance to show off his genius to someone who would understand. Ford could relate to that. He was pleased that he could be for Shermie what he always wanted for himself – someone who would encourage and support his intellectual pursuits. Clearly the boy had inherited the most important Pines family traits.

“Alright,” Shermie said, lifting the lid. “Prepare to be amazed, folks...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SO SO FUN TO WRITE!!! ///^,^///
> 
> Okay, I have SO many headcanons about Shermie, but I will limit it to this: 
> 
> -The baby Ma Pines was holding in “A Tale of Two Stans” was Shermie. Ford's been in college getting his degrees, which takes a while, so he's away for most of Shermie's younger years.  
> -I also like the idea that Ford and Stan have an older brother named Shermie, who left to join the military and left his son Shermie (Junior) at home for Ma to raise.  
> -Shermie grows up to work in the military like his father, working with designing new spy tech.  
> -Shermie remembers Ford so fondly for listening to and admiring his inventions, that he tells his kids all about how Ford is such a great role model. So when said kids decide that their own kids, Mabel and Dipper, could use some fresh air, who better to send them to than their great-uncle Ford?


	3. Forduary 2018 Week Three: Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not paranoia if someone's really out to kill you.

Ford moved swiftly away from the place where he'd buried the second journal. It was dark – one in the morning – and unlikely that anyone would be awake. But he'd dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled up to hide the glint of his glasses, just in case. He hurried to the cover of the trees. He planned to skirt the edges of the town, keeping to the shadows, away from the dim glow of the streetlamps. The Moth Man was harmless, but there were other eyes out there. Watching. 

He hadn't brought any source of illumination. He moved as quickly as he dared, making as little noise as possible, nearly tripping several times over tree roots, catching himself with the long-handled shovel. He gripped it tightly. It would make a poor weapon against the worst monsters of Gravity Falls...should Bill possess one, should it find him – 

Something jabbed his back and he screamed, and the next thing he knew he was sprinting out of the forest straight towards the cemetery. He climbed over the spiked fence without even slowing down and finally collapsed, panting and gasping, in front of a stone angel. 

He quickly rolled behind the angel's pedestal, staying low, looking back the way he'd come. But he saw nothing. Not a shadow, not a twitch. 

Ford held perfectly still, flat on the grass, catching his breath. Perhaps it had just been a stray branch. Or an animal. Perhaps he simply allowed his paranoia to carry him too far. He saw no one, heard no one. 

_Trust no one._

A slight breeze chilled the back of his neck. He shuddered. He needed to get back to the Shack. Quickly. He stood up and promptly banged his head. 

“Ow!” 

He looked up, expecting to see the angel's stone wing. But there was another statue just behind her. It was the statue of a man in casual clothes, his face turned upward. Its arms were raised, one higher than the other, as though it was reaching for something. Ford had hit his head on one of its arms. And its eyes – blank, of course. 

And yet...

He stepped back involuntarily. Then he turned and ran. 

 

Ford slipped out of Dawn to Dusk, glancing around him. It was broad daylight because the store didn't even open until literal dawn but he'd run into some kind of were-carrot in the forest and hadn't reached the store until nine. People everywhere. Big people, short people, laughing, talking, looking at him, whispering. He knew how he must look, filthy and scratched. But was it possible it wasn't the people watching? That it was really Bill, watching through their eyes? The glare of sunlight would hide the jaundiced coloration of the sclera. Was it possible that Bill was possessing someone right now? How many people could be posses at once? 

“'Scuse me –”

Ford jumped two feet straight up and whipped around, left hand already whipping back his trench coat for the weapon in his pocket. 

The woman looked at him, wide-eyed. “Yo, dude, chill. I just wanted to get into the grocery store.” She nodded to the door, her rich red hair falling over her shoulders. 

Ford swallowed and hurried away. There was a mailbox in the Town Square. He hurried towards it. The sun was hot and he was sweating in his trench coat. He ducked through alleys until he found something resembling a rabid possum that tried to steal his boot right off his foot. Then it was back to the street, to the whispers, to the stares. Ford's chest constricted with fear. 

There – the mailbox. He half-ran, half-staggered towards it and pulled the merchandise from Dusk to Dawn from his pocket. He opened the mouth of the mailbox and nearly dropped it in before he realized he hadn't written so much as an address. 

His eyes darted around. Not a lot of people, but that shadow in the alley...was that the corner of a trash bag or the sleeve of a dark red cloak? 

He swallowed, pulled a pen from his pocket, and quickly scribbled a message. Then he dumped it in the mailbox and had nearly turned away when something caught his eye. 

The statue. 

His mouth went dry. 

No, no – it couldn't be the same statue. Its legs were still bent like it was walking, but this one had its arms at its sides, its posture bent forward, carved in the posture of someone walking with intention. It was across the square from him, and it was difficult to tell, but it seemed to be placed as though it was moving towards the statue. For a fleeting moment, Ford actually felt a touch of humor. Not only had someone carved the statue of a fraudulent founder, they had been so enamored of it that they had made a second statue to be Northwest's literal follower. It bore an uncanny likeness to the one in the cemetery, that was all. No doubt part of a series by the same sculptor. 

And it was looking right at Ford. 

The realization went through him like a shock. He backed up, then darted across the street, dodging traffic. The statue never turned its head to follow him, but that was hardly a comfort. If Bill could possess animate vessels, what if he could possess inanimate ones as well? 

It was no longer safe to stay in town. He turned and fled. 

 

_“LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE HAVING FUN, FORDSY!”_

_“You can't threaten me. I've shut down the Portal and sealed the lab!”_

_“AW, YOU'RE JUST TOO CUTE, IQ! YOU'RE LIKE ONE OF THOSE FURBY DOLLS THAT BLINK AND DANCE WHEN SOMEONE WINDS THEM UP!”_

_“Get out of my head and leave me alone!”_

_“SURE THING, FORDSY! I THINK I'VE ENOUGH OF THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL FOR ONE NIGHT, ANYWAY. HOW'S ABOUT WE STICK A PIN IN AN ELECTRICAL SOCKET?”_

Ford woke up on the floor, shaking, the pin still in his burnt fingers. 

 

It was dusk as he moved through the woods. He wanted to wait until midnight, but no one ventured this far into the forest, and his night vision was failing badly, since he could only see well out of his left eye. 

He'd never needed the map to the Unicorn's glade. He'd recorded it merely to keep thorough records of his findings. He held a pair of sharp scissors in one hand and a sack in the other. It didn't matter if the unicorns tried their usual games on him. The stakes were too high. Had to keep Bill out of his head, out of his house, before something terrible happened. He'd rip the hair from their manes with his bare hands if he had to. 

A sound drew him up short. After so many years, he'd grown accustomed to the natural rhythms of the forest. That sound had not been among them. Yet it had been to soft for him to hear clearly. 

He gripped the scissors tighter, the metal growing slippery in his sweaty palm. He turned in a slow circle. 

Something white and red flashed past and Ford yelled, throwing the scissors with near-perfect aim. He clipped the blood-red wing of the eyebat and it seemed to roll in the air, screaming silently as it flapped and fluttered out of sight. 

Ford took several deep breaths to steady his breathing. The scissors had landed with a quivering _thunk_ in a nearby tree. He moved to retrieve them. And stopped short. 

The statue was back.

Ford barely caught a glimpse of it – frozen mid-stride, arms swinging, its face masked in shadow – before he dropped the bag and ran. 

 

 _“ANY LUCK GETTING GIRLS TO LIKE YOU YET? DOESN'T SMELL LIKE IT!”_

_“Bill! LEAVE ME ALONE!”_

_“BELIEVE YOU ME, PAL, AM I EVER GLAD I DON'T HAVE A NOSE. I GOT A NICE CURE FOR THAT ODOR PROBLEM, THOUGH! JUST SEAL UP ALL YOUR SWEAT PORES WITH INDUSTRIAL-GRADE CEMENT!”_

_“But I don't have – what are you doing with my body?!”_

_“NOT A THING, KID! YOU FINALLY WISED UP AND TRIED TO WRAP YOURSELF IN A STRAIGHTJACKET, REMEMBER? HEY! SINCE WE'RE STUCK HERE ANYWAY, WANNA WATCH A MOVIE?”_

_The mindscape flashed around him. Ford found himself in the forest. He looked around cautiously, automatically conjuring a weapon in his hand. But Bill was nowhere to be found._

_Something caught his eye. The statue was standing a little ways off to his left, still poised as if to run. Ford swallowed. So it_ did _have something to do with Bill. Was Bill animating it? Was it heading towards the Shack right now? How could he defend himself against something made of_ rock?!

 _As he watched, something seemed to happen to the statue's face. It was facing Ford in profile, its right side in full view. Its blank gray eye seemed to glisten, slowly turning a translucent white, like the flesh of a slimy grub. The eye oozed out of the statue's socket, slid down its face, and paused, quivering on its chin like a grotesque tear, before falling to the forest floor with a wet squelch. Ford shuddered._

_But the nightmare wasn't over. The thing on the ground mutated, growing dark red spindles from its sides like some kind of spider. It flexed the spindles, opening and closing them like fingertips. Thin membranes spread between the spindles. It flapped, lifting itself into the air. An eyebat._

_The whole thing was definitely nauseating, but for a moment Ford allowed himself to feel relieved: this was far from the usual level of horror that Bill took such glee in showing him. Perhaps, as long as he feigned appropriate disgust, it wouldn't get any worse._

_The eyebat turned to look at him._

_Ford yelled and ducked, dropping his weapon just as a beam of bright red light shot out of its pupil. Instantly, a squirrel fell to the ground beside him, petrified. The eyebat had turned it to stone._

_Ford looked up, tensed to run. But the bat was already fluttering off._

_The statue turned to face him, its one remaining eye now carved like an actual eyeball and focused directly on him. Slowly, with a low, ominous grinding, the statue reached its arms toward Ford, its mouth sagging open, its stone eyelid hanging over its ruined eye._

_He yelled, flinging his hands up in front of his face –_

_And the statue dissolved to nothingness._

_“HAHAHAHA! OH, MAN, YOUR REACTION WAS EVEN BETTER THAN I THOUGHT!”_

_Ford whipped around, but Bill was still nowhere in sight. His voice seemed to come from everywhere...and every single crack in the bark suddenly opened to reveal a yellow, slitted eye. Ford's gut shriveled with fear and hatred._

_He glared at the eyes. “I told you to LEAVE ME ALONE!”_

_“DON'T WORRY, SIXER! I'M NOT THE MONSTER THAT'S AFTER YOU TONIGHT!”_

_“What're you –”_

_Suddenly the ground fell out from under Ford and he fell through a pitch-black void._

 

_SLAM!_

Ford jolted awake as he rolled off the couch, crashing to the floor of his study. He banged his chin and his glasses nearly flew off his face. His arms were pinned by the bindings he'd tied in his trench coat, hoping to keep Bill from mutilating his body. A flood of relief washed over him. The bindings seemed to have worked. His face and head hurt from falling, and he was still covered in healing cuts and bruises, but he was no worse than when he'd fallen asleep. He shook his head to clear it and looked up. 

_The statue was in the doorway_.

Ford yelled and shoved himself back with his feet, struggling to get out of the jacket. The statue advanced, moving slowly, inevitably forward. Its lone remaining eye was slowly turning white, a pale, slimy orb in its dark gray face. It quivered like living jelly, then slipped out, its batlike wings unfurling before it hit the carpet. Ford shouted and scooted back further, hitting his head on the desk. But the eye, perhaps understanding that its body had already claimed the only available prey, flapped quickly out of the room. 

The statue kept advancing, now only a few feet from Ford where he lay twisted in his bonds, all but helpless. Its stone hands turned slowly on its wrists, reaching for his face. 

“ _Eeeyyess,_ ” it moaned. “ _Give me your eeeyyess..._ ” 

Ford had wedged himself into a corner between his desk and the wall. He lashed out with his feet and banged them on the statue's legs. It showed no sign of pain or even acknowledgement. It leaned forward, looming over Ford, blocking out the light, its deep sockets like tombs. Its stone hands reached for Ford's jacket. He yelled and squirmed down, but now he was flat on the floor with nowhere to go. The jacket's sleeves were loosening and he fought harder to get free. Fear and exhaustion roiled in his brain. Black spots fuzzed and popped in his vision. 

Hard blunt fingers dug into his chest. He tried to roll away and one of its arms pinned him down, crushing him. He gasped for breath. Its other hand reached for his eyes. Stone fingers dug into the flesh of his cheek, cutting into the soft tissue around his eyeball. It began to squeeze. 

Finally one hand came loose from Ford's jacket and he plunged it into his pocket. With a yell he twisted his face aside and _struck._

The mallet lit up with magical power, thanks to the arcane symbols Ford had carved into its wooden handle. The statue gave an unearthly shriek and drew back, a deep crack spreading across its shoulder. Ford freed his other arm and launched himself straight up, literally hammering the thing as hard as he could. 

The statue shrank from him, but it was still moving in slow motion. He darted around it, hammering everything he could reach. Cracks webbed across its side and back. It howled, reaching slowly for its eyes. The dark sockets were cracking deeper and deeper, crow's feet multiplying and growing down its cheeks and back across its head. 

The hammer broke clean off its handle but Ford didn't stop. He caught the metal head and pounded the statue with both parts of the hammer, beating on it relentlessly. Fingers and ears fell off, then chunks of its arm, its legs, until finally it crumbled to a pile of jagged rocks at his feet. 

Ford stood staring down at it, breathing heavily, his hands shaking with adrenaline. The thing had nearly ripped Ford's eyeballs out of its head. He could still feel the dig of its fingers in the flesh of his cheek. He shuddered. 

Something moved in the pile and Ford instantly raised the head of the hammer – but it was only that the rocks were slowly crumbling away, softening to dust, eroding into a fine powder even in the still air. 

Ford turned and fled the study. He slammed the door behind him, dropping the hammer. The wooden handle had cracked; it was useless now. If the statue should reconstitute – if Bill gained control of it – Ford would have no way to stop it. 

He looked around wildly. _The bookcase!_ He hurried towards it and shoved it, putting his whole weight into it. He'd lost several pounds, living off the remaining cans of beans in his cupboard, but pure adrenaline was still pumping through his muscles. He moved the bookshelf, inch by painful inch, over the wood floor and in front of the door to his study. 

Satisfied it was secure – at least for the moment – he slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. His heart was still pounding so hard it felt like the statue was repeatedly punching his chest. His eyes...the thing had almost stolen Ford's eyes... He pressed his forehead to his knees, shaking and gasping. 

Suddenly Bill's voice seemed to echo in the hall around him. 

“ _DON'T LOOK SO DOWN, FORDSY! IT'S NOT PARANOIA IF I'M REALLY OUT TO GET YOU!_ ”

Ford covered his ears with his hands and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I made it creepy enough. It was _way_ creepy in my head.   
>  Inspiration was obviously that line, “Have you come to steal my eyes?!” I kept thinking about why he would've said that. (Aside from, you know, obsession with eyes and Bill and general effects of sleep deprivation.) And the whole “eye” thing made me think of the eyebats, and wondering about how random it was that they turned people to stone. So I came up with it being a kind of creepy reproduction cycle. They turn something to stone, and the thing's eyes fall out and become eyebats. Oh, and the statue that's left behind is now eyeless and goes searching for new peepers. Fun times. So that was part of the inspiration for this, plus this legend I read about a “Mary” who calls you over and over, saying stuff like “I'm at your school...I'm on your street...I'm in your house...” 
> 
> (On a happier note, anyone wanna guess who the girl at the Dusk to Dawn was? :) )


	4. Week Four: Stan O' War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for this piece go to Mubfsw, who came up for the idea behind this story. Enjoy!

Ford sat in the kitchen of the Stan O' War, various bits and pieces of machinery scattered around him. 

“ _My bonnie lies over the ocean..._ ” 

His jaw tightened and he drew the machine closer, trying to screw in the little nails as fast as he could. 

“ _My bonnie lies over the sea...!_ ” 

Ford finally gave up and stood. “STANLEY WOULD YOU CUT THAT OUT!” 

The cabin door opened and Stanley stuck his head in, grinning. “Whatsa matter, Sixer? Want me to pick a different song?” 

“Yes! Preferably one with no lyrics whatsoever!” 

“You got it!” 

“Wait no wait –”

“AAAAAH-OOOOOH-EEEEEH-YAYAYAYAAAAAA –”

Ford slapped his hands over his ears. “Uncle, uncle!” 

“You mean _grunkle_ , baby! POW!” 

Ford groaned. About a week ago they'd found a strange golden goblet with odd encryptions around the rim. Stan, of course, drank from it the first chance he got, which was how they found out it cursed the drinker to hear the voices of the dead. Apparently the sea was heavily populated with ghosts from hundreds of years ago, and Ford had been excited to hear their first-hand accounts of ancient anomalies (well, second-hand, since Stan had had to repeat everything they said. Occasionally with his own colorful interpretations). 

After a few days, though, Stan got annoyed with having to listen to them nonstop. They had yet to find a cure for the curse, so Ford was working on an astral disruptor to keep the ghosts at bay. It would make the area very painful for any ghost to endure for long. 

Unfortunately, Stan had hit upon something even worse: his singing. 

“I am literally _begging_ you to stop,” Ford said, looking up at his brother. 

“Sorry, pal! Can't hear you over this drowned damsel screamin' in my ear!” He inhaled deeply, preparing to sing. 

“WAIT! Look, since we can't put enough distance between us, you've got to stop singing. Just for ten minutes, or I'll never get this disruptor done!” 

Stan cupped a hand around his ear. “Did I hear that right? The great 12th-degree genius can't fix a machine? Do I detect a sore spot?” 

“I'll give _you_ a sore spot!” Ford snapped. 

“Yeesh! Alright already. But don't expect to hear any more second-hand accounts of Atlantis from me.” He pulled back and closed the door. 

“ _That is the point of the whole disruptor!_ ” Ford called after him. 

He collapsed back on the bench next to the table and held his breath. He was waiting for another migraine-inducing song from his brother. When he counted to twenty, and the ship was still quiet, Ford let his breath whoosh out. Dipper and Mabel had told him that the three of them defeated a horde of zombies by singing. Given Stan's vocal cords, Ford believed Stan could've done it solo. 

_That must be what it's like for Stan, hearing those ghosts all the time. Serves him right_ , Ford thought. 

But he pulled the disruptor close again. Karmic justice aside, there was no reason for Stan to keep paying for what had clearly been a dumb mistake. 

 

It took him about three minutes to finish the machine, attach the feed, and turn it on. He brought it up to the deck. 

“Okay, Stanley! How's it...ah.” 

Stan was fast asleep, slumped against the wheelhouse, fishing pole still held tightly in his hand. His head was thrown back and he was snoring loudly. It was almost...cute. In a really crusty way. 

Of course. The ghosts had been pestering Stanley nonstop. Ford hadn't noticed a change in Stan's behavior, but he really should've noticed the dark shadows under his eyes. They must've been keeping him awake at all hours of the night. 

Well, it was clear enough that Stan needed the rest. Ford made to go back below deck, but his brother suddenly startled awake. 

“Ehn? Wazzat?” 

Ford turned back. “I didn't mean to wake you. I just finished making the astral disruptor. Do you hear any ghosts?” 

Stan blinked and looked around blearily. “Um...no.” He blinked a few times. “Wow. Wow! No wonder I fell asleep! Those stupid things have been yackin' my ear off for _days_ and now it's finally quiet!” He sprang to his feet. “Take _that_ , you ectoplasmic whiner-babies! Who's yellin' uncle now, huh? Hahahaha!” 

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I strongly suggest we treat this as a trial run only. And pay particular attention to any sounds you hear, whether or not you think I can hear them. There may be some side effects to mixing an astral disruptor with your curse. In fact, the particular wavelengths that the ghosts seem to use may also have been duplicated by other supernatural –”

“ _ROLLIN' DOWN TO OLD MAUI, BOYS/ROLLIN' DOWN TO OLD MAUI!_ ” 

Ford jumped so badly he nearly dropped the disruptor. “Great Einstein's Ghost, Stanley! I just told you the disruptor's working, you don't need to sing!” 

“Sure I don't, that's why I feel like singin'! _WE'RE HOMEWARD BOUND TO THE ARCTIC GROUND_ –”

“That's it!” 

Ford put the disruptor safely on the deck and lunged at Stan, literally bowling him over. 

It was like being kids again. They rolled around on the deck, the fishing rod long forgotten, wrestling and trying to grab at each other. Ford knew Stan's every weak spot, all the little places where, if he did it _juuuust_ right...

“Sweet Mo – _Moses_ , Ford!” Stan gasped, laughing so hard tears streamed down his eyes. “You have twelve fingers, it's not –” and then he ran out of breath to say anything else. He was practically doubled up laughing. 

Ford paused on top of him, grinning. “Give up yet?” 

“I give, I give! Grunkle!” 

Ford laughed and rolled off. Stanley sat up, still wheezy with laughter and clutching at a stitch in his side. 

“You tryin' a make me wet my pants or something?” Stan asked, smiling, when he'd gotten some of his breath back. “I mean geez, that's just playin' dirty! You coulda just _asked_ me to stop singin'.” 

Ford punched him lightly on the arm. “I did ask, you knucklehead.” 

“Musta been short-term memory loss!” 

He rolled his eyes. “Really, Stan? _Must_ you kid about that?” 

“'Must you', 'must you',” Stan mimicked. “Aaand you're back to bein' a stuffed shirt. And here I thought my good influence was finally rubbin' off on you.” 

“Too bad,” Ford said dryly. “How're those ghosts of yours?” 

“They're not _my_ ghosts,” Stan corrected, and he yawned hugely. “I dunno, can't hear a thing. Maybe the curse just wore off?” 

Ford shrugged. “We could turn the disruptor off to check.” 

“ _No way_.” Stan yawned again. “At least not until I actually get some sleep here.” 

“Sure, sure. Why don't – you mean _here_ here?” Ford looked down, surprised. Stan was lying down right on the deck, folding his arms under his head for a pillow. “Stan, your back is going to stiffen up if you do that and you'll be in no shape for your chores around the Stan O' War.” 

“Even better,” Stan mumbled, closing his eyes. “Wake me when you...” The rest of his sentence was lost in a snore. 

Ford smiled and got up to retrieve the fishing pole. It had fallen on the deck and the line had snapped, but the actual pole was still in place. He brought it down to the cabin, found Stan's orthopedic back pillow, and brought it back up. After he made Stan as comfortable as he could, he took up his post in the wheelhouse and checked to make sure they were still on course. He supposed he could do the evening chores tonight, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT GUYS FORDUARY IS DONE!!!
> 
> Wait...Forduary is _done?!_ NOOOOOO! 
> 
> Thanks again to Mubfsw. I wanted to finish Forduary in the actual month of Forduary, and the only reason that happened was because Mubfsw gave me an awesome idea. Thanks again, Mubfsw!


End file.
